


Spangel Cubed

by beetle



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Post-Chosen, post-nfa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three sets of three drabbles in three separate post-NFA ‘verses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Set post-NFA.

**A Matter Of Time**

  
  
Every eventuality is exactly that.  
  
“Harder,” he says or screams or murmurs, his eyes flickering gold-blue, like blinking up at the sky on a sunny day . . . and I’m still waiting for the first  _thud._  
  
It’s the same in every motel room between L.A. and Argentina; we’re just killing time till it happens.  
  
 _“So long as it’s not you,”_  he’d said just before Hell was unleashed on us. In the aftermath his words have changed . . . but his eyes haven’t.  
  
He’s waiting for the  _thud_ , too.  
  
For the first breath.  
  
For shanshu.  
  
He knows it’s only a matter of time.  
  
  


**Heroes Fade**

  
  
“Sorry.”   
  
Hazy blue eyes regard me from dark hollows and a deathly-pale face.  
  
“Don’t try to talk,” I tell him; I doubt he’ll start obeying me, now.  
  
His smile is wan, amused. “Don’tcha . . . wanna . . . know why?”   
  
“Spike--”   
  
“Sorry . . . I’m leavin’ you . . . alone.”   
  
His hand is colder now than it had been before the goddamn shanshu gave him back William’s humanity--William’s Consumption. It closes weakly around mine.  
  
“Sorry . . . Peaches. Sorry.”  
  
I can’t hear the sloshing lurch of his heart, or the wet, agonized sound of his drowning over the breaking of  _my_  heart.  
  
My own selfish, healthy, human heart.  
  
  


**. . . Ten Years On. . . .**

  
  
“Will,” I say; it sounds brusque--like I’m angry.  
  
He looks up from his Chai and his novel.   
  
“Liam?” His look of surprise is genteel; as fitting on his fair features as the spectacles perched on his nose.  
  
I can’t do this.  
  
“Bugger-- _Peaches, get your arse back here!_ ” He shouts before I reach the exit, heads turning to look at us.  
  
I don’t know what to say. What  _wouldn’t_  sound trite and stupid after . . .  _everything_?  
  
His arms slide around me; his face presses between my shoulder-blades.   
  
“Missed you, Angel.”  
  
God, he’s so  _warm_ , now--  
  
“Missed you, too, Spike.”  



	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three sets of three drabbles in three separate post-NFA ‘verses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Set post-NFA.

**The Care and Feeding Of**

  
  
“Not my soddin’ keeper, are you?”  
  
The half-breed refuses to look up, but it knows what form I wear. It has consumed an unwise quantity of alcohol and will shortly grow belligerent. Start fights it cannot win.  
  
This must not happen.  
  
“Spike. . . .”  
  
It shudders, and does not look up. “ _Don’t_ , alright? Be anyone, but don’t be him. You’re  _not_  him.”  
  
“Don’t be a pain in the ass. Lemme take you home.”  
  
It takes a shuddering breath.   
  
“Damn you, Blue.”   
  
Tears run down its face when it looks at me.  
  
It is a strange pet. But I will keep it.  
  
  


**Stones Cast**

  
  
“So . . . you and not-so-dead-boy, huh?”  
  
Spike nods, sipping his beer. Xander shakes his head, shaggy hair flopping every which way.   
  
Neither man's eyes leave the soccer match playing on the tv. The announcers are announcing in  _es-span-yol_ ; Xander’s pretty lost, but apparently Spike’s  _es-span-yol_  is up to snuff.  
  
“So?”   
  
Xander glances Spikeward and notices much twitching and flaring of the nostrils.   
  
“You and Andrew, eh?”  
  
Damn Spike’s preternatural sniffer!  
  
“Hey--who’s winning?” Xander hastily changes the subject. The announcers have started screaming:  _“GOAL!”_  
  
Spike smirks and is magnanimous in victory. “Man-U, who else?"  
  
  


**Catharsis**

  
  
It isn’t anything like true-love that brought them together on the New Council’s reference library floor.  
  
It’s not guilt that haunts them as they straighten their clothes.  
  
Nor is it shame that keeps their gazes skittery, lowered.  
  
“We should go,” Buffy begins, at the same time Angel says: “Spike’s expecting me.”  
  
The last of their great romance is finally dead; is a cooling puddle left for the cleaning lady to find.  
  
“See ya,” they both say, with an awkward grimace of a smile that soon fades.   
  
One last, searching look and they part ways to seek their respective spouses.  



	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three sets of three drabbles in three separate post-NFA ‘verses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Set post-NFA.

**To The Victor. . . .**

  
  
You bastard.  
  
You sodding, bloody bastard.  
  
Had to be some kinda champion . . . save the whole bloody world?  
  
Well look at you, now.  
  
Can’t even save yourself, can you, shanshu-boy?  
  
Had to make me  _feel_  for you, but what do you feel, now?   
  
Do you know the marines  _and_  the Slayers landed, and saved our arses?  
  
Do you even know I’m here, trying not to bawl like some weepy bint?   
  
Do you know that--whether you live out your natural life or bleed out in this alley--I still face most of an eternity alone?  
  
You bloody bastard.  
  
 _Hold on._  
  
  


**”. . . And Cast Off Thy Hateful Slumber.”**

  
  
His heartbeat is strong and he’s warm, now. Doin’ my best to keep him that way while he sleeps.  
  
Dunno how or  _if_  we really gave Hell’s Legions the slip.  
  
After three nights of waiting and guarding, he takes a deeper, longer breath; lets it go, his eyes fluttering open.  
  
“Oh . . . hello.” He smiles up at me. I’m so damn glad he’s awake, I lean down and kiss him hard, tasting life, humanity.   
  
“And ye’re a pretty enough lad, I’ll admit, but--” when I let him up for air, Peaches sounds breathless, perplexed and very, very Irish. “Who  _are_  ye?”  
  
  


**Laid Low**

  
  
Every night he weeps himself to sleep.   
  
Once, I’d have laughed myself sick, even if he couldn’t hear me, but to see him like this, to see him so  _broken_ \--  
  
Nothin’ funny about it.  
  
“Angel,” I whisper in his ear; his breathing hitches with tears still unshed. “I’m  _here_ , mate . . . I’m here.”  
  
“He can’t hear you.”  
  
When I look up, Doyle is watching Angel again, green eyes as tortured as brown.  
  
“He’ll  _never_  hear you, William. Believe me,” he looks out at the night again, his voice hollow and dead like my own. Moonlight shines right through him. “I’ve tried.”


End file.
